Holler of Death

Rita Mae Reese

Like George Washington who never had children
but fathered a country
you mothered a movement
you mothered a music,
a music that moved mountains

You knew our hearts are like birds
migrating between the promise 
of a good job and the certainty of home.

You knew memories are like mines
where we dig out what’s precious
and hope we don’t get buried alive,
hope the dust of it all 
colonizing our bodies 
won’t be the end of us

What is it that makes our feet
–so rooted in these hills and hollers–
need to move, kick, shuffle, 
insists we dance straight up the steep 
and back down and dance right on 
through the holler of death
even though our feet hurt so,
Lord, we didn’t even know feet could be so tired.
Nothing much to comfort us, it’s true,
but the motion of our bodies 
across a map we can never quite read,
so we follow instead the notes and the words 
in our heads calling us—always—back home